Clarity
by KatieBell70
Summary: After a terrifying and tragic night, Ron Weasley takes a long, hard look at his life. Sometimes you don't need Felix Felicis to have confidence and clarity. HBP spoilers. Rated T since it's mostly inside the mind of a teenage boy, which isn't G rated.


_To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead_** – **Bertrand Russell, Twentieth Century British philosopher, logician, essayist, and renowned peace advocate.

_Love is friendship set on fire_** – **Jeremy Taylor, Seventeenth Century Anglican Bishop.

_Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody to think that there was a little more love in the world _- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, p.624, U.S. edition

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ron Weasley closed the curtains around his four-poster bed and lay back against his pillow. For a long time, he stared idly at one of the golden palm leaves adorning the crimson brocade. The horrifying events of the evening were there, hovering on the edges of his consciousness: His invincible eldest brother, bleeding and vulnerable, horribly disfigured. The greatest wizard of the twentieth century, lying broken and still at the base of his impenetrable fortress. The heartbreaking beauty of the Phoenix song, which gave voice to the collective grief of a thousand souls. The young man he loved more than all of his own brothers combined, once again devastated by guilt and grief, taking another undeserved burden upon his shoulders. But in the forefront, as it always was, the image of Hermione, this time turning back to him as they both prepared for battle, her eyes seeming to tell him urgent things that her mouth had never uttered.

It was really rather pathetic that amidst the devastation of the evening, his heart continually focused on this one silly little quirk of his: his hopelessly stubborn love for his best friend. Earlier, he had felt such stunning confidence, and in the forefront of his mind throughout the whole battle was the thought that he needed to get back to her, to open his heart because he knew without a doubt that she loved him, too. He kept repeating it like a mantra. But when the battle was over and the dust cleared, his certainty disappeared along with the last traces of Felix Felicis.

How many times had he tied to interpret her gazes, so certain that she was trying to spur him into action, begging him to do the one thing that he wanted more than he wanted to breathe? His heart urged him to take a chance, to expose his deepest desires to the person he was least worthy of. But, how could he take such a risk, knowing that if she did care for him, his behavior during the last six months was, at best, insensitive and selfish, at worst, horrifyingly cruel? How could she possibly love him enough to forgive all of that, and why would she have ever chosen to love him in the first place, when there were so many more worthy of her?

And yet, the scenes that played out in the hospital wing came back continually to haunt him. That beautiful creature declaring her unwavering love for a man that many would look upon as grotesque, if they only looked at his face. In spite of her seemingly superficial beauty, she was willing to look beyond the surface to see the beauty of the man within.

And then there was that powerful woman, who lowered herself to plead with a man whom many considered to be less than human. She loved his strength, even when he could not see it in himself. In spite of her brashness, her fearlessness, she was willing to display her vulnerability in front of her comrades, even when she knew she stood a very good chance of rejection.

And lastly, there was that formidable woman, who stoically shouldered the daunting task of replacing the irreplaceable. Yet her words, though uttered curtly, expressed tenderness and unabashed sentimentality to a room full of people who looked to her for strength.

His world seemed to be turning upside down; nothing was safe or certain anymore. His family could be torn away from him at any time. This fortress where he had spent nearly a third of his life, seemingly impregnable, had been overrun with murderers. Trust had been irrevocably shattered. The fate of the world rested in the hands of a young man whose fragility Ron was all too painfully aware of.

The odds of good emerging victorious over evil had narrowed considerably tonight.

How could he face all of these terrifying truths so dauntlessly, yet lose every ounce of courage he possessed when it came to the girl he loved? He had been so close, so many times. She had held his hand on his hospital bed, gazing at him with such warmth, he'd ached to pour his heart out to her. But at the crucial moment, he told himself that he didn't have the right. He'd wanted to offer her everything, but he was not free to do it at that point in his life. Then, when he finally managed to extricate himself from the whole 'Lavender debacle', there she was, watching him with a look of expectant happiness, but he had told himself that it was too soon, that propriety demanded a delay. The more he delayed, the harder it seemed to broach the subject. It might have been easier if she showed some sign of irritation or impatience, but she chose _this_ time of all times in their friendship to treat him with patience and gentle understanding.

He couldn't go on like this, and yet couldn't summon the courage to make a change. And he was disgusted with himself for obsessing over his pathetic love life on this night, of all nights, when he should have been worried about the fate of the world. But, clearly, he wasn't the only one. Everybody in that hospital wing, including his own parents, had seemed to think that love was a pretty important thing to be worrying about on this tragic night.

His parents. How shocked he had been to hear his mother supporting Fleur when she finally understood that she truly loved Bill. And what she said to dignified Professor Lupin, chastising him as if he were one of her own unruly sons! And his father, sounding for all the world like an old crone of a matchmaker!

Ron and his siblings had always been under the impression that Arthur had found his wife's sentimentality slightly annoying. Ron had always figured that his mild-mannered and eccentric father had simply been a helpless bystander who had been caught in the undertow of his mother's forceful personality. But, once when he had visited his father's tiny office in the Ministry, he'd noticed a framed page torn out of one of those 'inspirational' Muggle calendars. It was a stunning photograph of a red and gold sunset, which Ron had assumed his father had found stirring, particularly as a Gryffindor man. But he remembered the words written underneath, for he had thought of Hermione when he read them: 'To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.'

He had seen a picture of his mother at sixteen, and he had seen his father, too. He now wondered what on earth could have possessed his father to even consider approaching Molly Prewett. It always made Ron a little uncomfortable to realize how stunning she had been. And there was Arthur Weasley; skinny, average-looking, poor, and a mediocre Keeper on one of Gryffindor's worst teams ever. But in Molly's eyes, Arthur was the finest man in the world.

He sighed and sat up. Judging by the light snores surrounding him, he surmised that his dorm mates had fallen asleep in spite of their fear and uncertainty. Amazingly enough, he could count Harry among their number: his snores were the loudest in the room. Apparently, having the fate of the world dumped on your shoulders did not always result in insomnia.

He'd had enough. He couldn't stand another day, another minute of uncertainty. At that moment, if he could have, he would have broken down the wall that separated his dorm from Hermione's. He would stride confidently to her bed, take her in his arms, and promise her the world. Then she would kiss him passionately and then…

'And then' was an avenue of fantasy best pushed from his mind if he ever wanted to sleep. Instead, he found himself attempting to create an eloquent and elaborate speech that he could recite for her sometime after breakfast tomorrow. He would look deeply into her eyes, apologize profusely for any pain he had ever caused her, and discuss all of her amazing qualities in great detail. (He thought it would be best to skip over a couple of those qualities, specifically her legs and her breasts, because didn't think she would be too keen to hear about how much time he had spent thinking about them.) Then he would admit that he had loved her long before he had any idea what love really was, and beg her to give him a chance to prove it to her.

He pounded his head into a pillow. Nobody in their right mind would believe Ronald Bilius Weasley capable of an eloquent speech, least of all Ron Weasley himself. The depth of his emotion would never survive the journey from his heart through his brain and out to his lips. He'd be much better off keeping it simple.

"I love you, Hermione." That seemed simple and effective enough. Too bad he'd already tried that one with no success. He hadn't had the courage to take a really good look at her reaction; he had been too busy trying to cover up own his mortifying blush. And, if he was going to be truly honest with himself, he had been covering his eyes in order not to see her reaction. And since the result had not been Hermione throwing her arms around him, he had to consider it a failed attempt. But, on the other hand, she had not slapped him across the face in righteous indignation, so he could not write it off as a complete disaster, either. He realized he had to say it in such a way that there was no possibility she would interpret it as a joke. Which was a risk in itself, because it took away his safety net. Once again he pounded his head into the pillow.

As he opened his eyes again, he examined at the familiar scarlet brocade curtains surrounding his bed. Usually, they soothed him, surrounding him with a feeling of warmth, but tonight he found them profoundly irritating. Hermione had once told him that red, according to Muggle theory, stimulated an increase in the heart rate, resulting in aggressive behavior. That is why, she told him, she had chosen a bed with hangings of gold rather than crimson. He didn't know if her theory was all a pile of Muggle rubbish, but with his mind swirling the way it was, he could not stand to look at the red brocade another minute. He was out of the dorm and descending the stairs before he even realized what he was doing. He had forgotten his dressing gown and slippers, he had no idea where he would end up, but he just had to get away from his crimson tomb.

He knew where he really wanted to end up; approaching Hermione's golden bed, watching her sleep with her hair spread across her pillow, her lips slightly parted, and her thick, dark lashes resting on the top of her cheek. If there were any way he could have managed it, he would have. He thought of his broom, flying up the staircase or soaring up the side of the tower and entering through her outside window. But surely that had been tried before, certainly one of the Marauders would have attempted it and failed? And could he really tell her how he felt knowing that Lavender was only a couple of yards away?

As he took the last couple of steps into the common room, his eyes went instinctively to the blazing fire, the only source of light in the circular room. As he drew nearer the fire, his eyes made out the dark shape sitting in front of it, which he quickly identified as a person curled up in a blanket, staring sleepily at the flames. His heart stopped. Surely this was a dream. He could not have achieved his wishes so easily. But it was not a dream. There she sat, with the fire dancing in her eyes and her cheeks pink from the warmth.

In his wildest fantasies he could hardly have asked for a better scenario. It was past one; no one would be coming down to interrupt them. Without a doubt, McGonagall was asleep. Filch had no access here. _They_ were the prefects; no one could send them up to bed. There would never be a better moment.

He swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Hermione."

Startled out of her reverie, she turned to him with wide eyes and scrambled to her feet. "Ron," she breathed.

There she was, standing five feet away from him. They were completely alone. _Tell her, you daft prat!_

His lips would not form the words. She was so bloody beautiful. He lowered his head and reached back to rub the tension from his neck. "Why aren't you…"

"I waited, I thought…Well, I wanted to talk to you."

"Hermione…" The words were on the tip of his tongue. _Say it, you bloody coward_. He thrust his hands in his pockets, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Ron, I…"

But, before she could utter another word, and before he could allow his doubt and fear to overcome him, he had crossed the space between them, pulling her into his arms and crushing his mouth to hers. For a terrifying moment, her body stiffened in shock, but the moment passed and she slid her arms around his neck, leaning into him and kissing him back.

Finally, they broke apart and stared at each other in shock.

"Ron!" she said breathlessly.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, that's not how I planned to do that."

"It isn't? Because I've wanted you to do that for _ages_."

"You have?"

"Of course I have, Ron!" She gave him an all too familiar exasperated and indulgent look.

"Brilliant." He grinned and straightened up to his full height.

Her face fell a little. "Well… not last winter, though."

"What? Oh, that. Yeah, about that…" He briefly considered coming at her and kissing her again, just to avoid the subject. Kissing her, now that he had managed it successfully, seemed a lot less daunting than pouring out his heart, not to mention more enjoyable. _Bloody hell, was it ever enjoyable!_ But if he had learned anything during his relationship with Lavender, it was that snogging was a poor substitute for communication.

"Come here and sit down with me, will you?" He reached for her hand and pulled her toward a nearby couch. He looked at her nervously as they sat down, and she seemed unable to take her eyes off their still joined hands.

"This isn't any good."

"What?"

"I can't see your face over here. I forgot my wand, do you have yours?"

"Why do you need a wand, Ron?"

"I want to turn on the lights."

"Oh, yes, of course!" She drew her wand from the pocket of her dressing gown and lit a few of the lamps around the room from a distance.

"Stop, there; that's better." He took the wand from her and laid it on a table, then picked up her now empty wand hand.

"I…I was such a stupid prick, Hermione."

"Must you use that word, Ron?"

"I _was _a prick, Hermione. I should have just come to talk to you, instead of reacting, but I never could be sure…and I didn't think I had the right..."

"Are we still talking about Lavender?"

"Yes, we are, sort of. I just wanted you to know that I wasn't completely clueless. I mean, I was _clueless_, but…What I mean is that I did have some idea that what I did was going to hurt you, and I'm so bloody sorry."

"You hurt me on purpose?"

"Yeah, I reckon I did."

"Why?"

"I overreacted to what you said about my game. It was like you were saying that I couldn't do _anything _right, and I had spent several days before that thinking the exact same thing. Plus, I was still upset over Krum."

"What does _he_ have to do with it?"

"Damn it, I didn't mean to bring that up…"

"What about Viktor?"

"You kissed him…And no, before you say another word, I don't want any explanation, or details. I may be jealous, but I know, now, that you had…every right to kiss him. It was years ago and you were never mine, much as I would have liked you to be, and it is your private business. But I felt betrayed. I had this stupid idea that we were gonna share our first kisses _together_. So I overreacted, which is nothing new. To do it publicly, though, that was just cruel. I'm even sorrier that I didn't just ask you about it at the time, but I was just seeing red, I was so bloody jealous."

"Oh, Ron…"

"So there was Lavender, and it was pretty easy to tell that she liked me, and I didn't have to worry about ruining our friendship because we didn't have one. And she thought I was a pretty good Quidditch player even without cheating, and she didn't seem to mind that I didn't know how to kiss, and she didn't try to boss me around, at least not until later. And I am really ashamed to say that I found the fact that it was _her_ appealing because I knew that you thought she was just pretty and stupid."

"Ron!"

"But mainly it was just because she was there and interested. And I thought, deep down that I couldn't do any better; that I never really stood a chance with you."

" I really wish you'd talked to me that day, Ron, I would have explained everything. I mean, Viktor was just…"

"Hermione, I really don't want to hear about Krum, I don't care anymore. It's ancient history. And so is Lavender Brown. It's _you_ I want. It's always been you, ever since I was a kid. I would give anything to go back in time and have been the one to ask you to that stupid ball. I was dying to, you know?"

"You were?"

"Yeah, it just seemed so _natural_ that I would go with you, and Harry with Ginny. But I didn't really want to do the actual asking. If I did, then you might figure it all out; you were always too clever for your own good. Even when I asked Fleur, which was really just a moment of insanity, I had a vague notion that if I went with her that you'd be sure to think that I was worth noticing."

"There was never a time that I didn't notice you, Ron Weasley!"

"You had a funny way of showing it! You never had _anything_ good to say about me. Even on the first day we met, you made fun of my spell and the dirt on my nose, and all I could think about was how pretty your eyes were."

"Oh, Ron, really?"

"And it was scary how smart you were, I always worked ten times harder on everything just to keep up with you. And I never could, and you never let me forget it."

"I was never as hard on you as I was on myself, Ron."

"Damn, woman, no wonder you're so tense!"

"I kept pushing you because I always hoped that your future was going to be my future too. I wanted it to be the best one possible. But then when you finally started noticing girls, you always noticed the pretty, vapid ones, and I thought you would throw it all away on a girl that would never understand how special you are!"

"I'm not, Hermione, you're the special one; you're amazing, you're terrifying."

"Stop saying you're not special! If I know anything, then I know you're wonderful, and I'm supposed to be the 'brightest witch of the age', aren't I? You're my knight, Ron Weasley; you're the best person I've ever met. And for the record, we both fouled things up this year. I had hundreds of opportunities to tell you how I felt, but I was so stupid and proud, I just kept criticizing you instead. I thought it was so obvious that I fancied you, and I didn't want to give you too big of a head. I guess I wasn't as transparent as I thought I was. And I'm really, really sorry for the canaries."

"I deserved it, I deserved worse."

"No, you didn't."

"Whatever. My point in all this is that things are about to get really scary, I think. I don't want to go through another day, let alone another battle, without telling you that…I love you."

"Oh, Ron!" She threw her arms around him, burying her head in his chest. Her body started shaking softly.

"Are you _crying_, Hermione?" he asked, horrified. _What is it with girls and crying, anyway?_

"No!" she said against his chest. She raised her head to look at him, and her eyes were liquid but she was smiling. "Well, I am, just a little, but I'm happy, really."

She raised up a hand to gently brush back the hair from his eyes. "I've been wanting to do that for six years."

He reached over and buried his fingers in her hair, pulling her face closer to his. "Not as much as I've wanted to do _this_ to you."

"I love you, Ron."

"Bloody brilliant!" he said with a lopsided grin, just before his pressed his lips to hers again.

_Fin_

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Epilogue:_

A slight sniffle broke through the silence of the Gryffindor common room, twenty minutes later.

"Oh, that was lovely," said the Fat Lady, dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

"And about bloody time," said the Scholarly Man with the Book.

"The best one in fifty years," said the Woman with the Baby.

"I _still _say Potter and Evans was more exciting," said Violet, but she also wiped a tear from her eye.

"Yes, dear, but look how that ended. This will have a happy ending, I just know it," said the Fat Lady, blowing her nose delicately.

Violet sneered, "And how could you know that, dearie? Been spending time with the Gypsy Woman with the Crystal Ball, have you? Wasn't she the one who predicted Sirius Black would become Minister of Magic?"

Nearly Headless Nick emerged from behind a curtain. "Well, I suppose I had better go inform the Fat Friar that he won his bet. It is only fitting that a nobleman accepts defeat graciously. I _still _say, however, that she would have been better off with Harry. That ginger-haired boy is remarkably obtuse."

"How can you say that after witnessing that lovely scene?" said the Woman with the Baby.

"You ladies are too sentimental, by far. You've never considered anyone else since their second year."

"Well, you didn't get to watch him mope around while she was petrified. You were petrified, yourself," said Violet.

"I knew after the Yule Ball," said the Wood Nymph.

"Ah, that was quite a gripping scene, wasn't it?" said Sir Nicholas.

"_I _knew after the giant chessboard," said the Fat Lady loftily.

"I knew after the troll incident," said the Witch with a Broom.

"I knew after the slugs," said the Woman with the Baby.

All of the women sighed together, nodding.

"Well, there you have it. I concede to your female intuition. However, the Fat Friar seemed to know on the very first night. I have always suspected that he is in league with the Sorting Hat. Ah, well, I'd better find the Friar. Gossip travels fast around this castle, and Merlin knows that we need something nice to talk about after tonight's tragedy."

"Do you think you all would mind relocating yourselves to your own canvasses and let me have a moment's peace?" said the Scholarly Man with the Book irritably. "I was never designed to serve as a theatrical venue, you know!"

"I have a lovely idea! Let's go visit the Monks and drink a toast with them, to _young love_!" said the Fat Lady, and every one except the Scholarly Man agreed, moving out of the canvas.

_**A/N: This was written for the 'Checkmated Ron/Hermione quote fic challenge.' I needed to use the Bertrand Russell quote somewhere during the story. On a side note, Bertrand Russell's longtime lover was named Dora Black, and she was fascinating woman to read about. She made me feel that I had to include a little reference to Tonks in the story. (Not that I need an excuse to write about Tonks)**_

_**In searching for a title for this story, I came across the Jeremy Taylor quote, which I thought was 'Ron and Hermione in a nutshell.'**_

_**The HBP quote was really the inspiration for all this. I thought it was one of the best lines in the book, particularly because of who uttered it. I wondered how Ron must have felt when he heard it, especially considering how peculiarly the adults were acting in the circumstances.**_

_**I wonder if the epilogue seems a little too lighthearted for the rest of the story. I had no intentions of writing it when I started, but it seemed to possess my typing figures temporarily, before I'd even finished the story. Perhaps I was possessed by Sir Nicholas! Those paintings have to find some way to get through the tedium of sitting on a wall all day!**_

_**Please let me know what you think. Ron/Hermione was the first ship I sailed, and they are done so perfectly in canon that I hesitated to attempt it.**_


End file.
